


Lend Me a Hand?

by Narassi



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: (nothing too major), Canon-typical language, Depression, Gen, Minor Injuries, Prosthetic Arm AU, Suicidal Thoughts, character injury, characters to be added as they appear
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-12-07
Packaged: 2018-11-06 18:15:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11041602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narassi/pseuds/Narassi
Summary: Wash lost his arm a long time ago, when the Mother of Invention fell. A sheet of reinforced glass that formed one of the windows in the medbay came loose on impact and cut it clean off. They designed a pretty good prosthetic arm for him. It's old news.Well. It's old news to him, anyways. His new teammates might disagree.





	1. Snow and Spray Paint

**Author's Note:**

> An AU where Wash has a prosthetic arm. The Reds and Blues find out one-by-one. Wash makes an art of announcing it. 
> 
> And the puns, god, the PUNS. Wash. Stop it.

Wash blinked sluggishly, awareness coming back to him in bits and pieces. He was _cold_. Something must be wrong with the temperature controls in his suit, he mused. He ached all over, too. His HUD flashed warnings at him, telling him that he’d sustained a few major injuries and that his prosthetic had taken damage. He ignored them and squinted up at the snowflakes swirling down around him. Meta was dead. _Maine_ was dead. Most of him was glad that the Meta couldn’t hurt him anymore, but a part of him that he thought he’d buried ached over the death of his friend.

Wash breathed out a resigned sigh. Maybe he should have let himself fall off that cliff alongside the Meta. He probably still could. He was so close to the edge, all he had to do was stand up—or crawl—a few feet and hurl himself over the edge. He could probably _roll_ over the edge from here, he thought amusedly. Then he wouldn’t have to deal with his failure, he wouldn’t have to go back to prison, he wouldn’t have to deal with—

“Yeah, maybe you shouldn’t move, dude.” Wash blinked. He’d been rolling onto his side so that he could get up and move over to the cliff. Apparently—what was his name again? Tucker? Yeah, Tucker—apparently Tucker still thought he was a threat. The aqua soldier had moved to hover above him. Wash ignored him in favor of heaving himself onto all fours. He gritted his teeth as he forced his limbs to cooperate through the haze of pain. “Whoah! Stop! Doc, help!” Tucker yelped. Then there were hands on his shoulders, forcing him back into the snow. He tried to roll to the side to avoid the aqua soldier, but red armor filled his vision and another set of hands pressed down on his back to stop him from moving. Wash ended up visor-down in the snow with both sets of hands pinning him down.

“Sorry!” Doc’s voice sounded from behind him somewhere. “I was trying to find the first aid kit in the snow. What happened?” Sarge must have moved away to let Doc in, because the hands on his back moved rest on his legs.

“He tried to get up and almost fell off the goddamn cliff!” Tucker said. Wash’s brows furrowed. Tucker sounded...concerned? Why was he concerned?

Doc sighed. “Can you roll him over? He’s mostly bleeding on his front, not his back.” Wash was rolled over onto his back, and he groaned as his stomach churned, none too happy with the change in position.

“Wash, what were you doing, trying to get up?” Doc admonished gently, “You could have fallen off of the cliff again.”

Wash coughed a little and looked down as the medic pressed a hand against his ribs. “That was the point,” he admitted.

Doc froze, so Wash looked up tentatively. Sarge, Tucker, and Doc all stared at him as if he’d grown a second head.

“Uhh,” Tucker managed.

Sarge just took a hold of Wash’s feet and yanked, dragging him a good few yards away from the cliff. Wash gritted his teeth against the pain. Doc and Tucker trailed after them.

Doc just sighed heavily. “Let’s at least get the bleeding under control. Then we can deal with that.”

Tucker put his hands on his hips. “Yeah, I’m just gonna leave you to that. Caboose looks like he’s gonna cry anyways. I should probably go deal with _him_.” The aqua soldier walked away without another glance.

Sarge glanced between Wash and Doc until Doc shooed him away. “Go on, I can take care of him. He’s not getting up by himself any time soon.” Sarge nodded and followed Tucker.

Wash flopped his head back down in the snow. “Do you want to talk about it?” Doc asked.

Wash glared up at the medic. “No.”

Doc shrugged. “Alright. I won’t force you. I _do_ need to take your armor off to apply biofoam to a few of these, so hold still.” Wash grunted and let the medic do his work. He even bit his tongue when the medic pulled _all_ of his armor off, and not just a few pieces.

Ten, maybe twenty minutes passed in silence while Doc worked on him before Tucker stomped back over to them with pieces of armor in his arms. The aqua soldier dumped the pieces in the snow by Wash’s side.

“What’s that for?” Doc asked without looking up.

Tucker crossed his arms. “Get him in that armor.”

“What?” Doc looked up at Tucker, finally.

Tucker gestured to the armor pieces he’d dumped in the snow. “Hurry up! There are going to be a bunch of soldiers here to investigate and shit, get him in that armor!” Caboose walked up with the rest of the armor—Church’s armor, Wash realized belatedly—cradled in his arms. The blue soldier dumped it on the ground next to the other pieces. “C’mon, Caboose, grab his armor.” Caboose dutifully walked around Doc to grab _Wash’s_ armor and carry it away.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Wash asked.

Doc shrugged. “No idea. You gonna give them your helmet?” Tucker held his hand out insistently.

Wash hesitated. He _liked_ this helmet, but it had probably already sent a recovery beacon. Tucker was right. There would be soldiers here soon to find him. He scowled and reached up slowly with his left arm to undo the seals on his helmet. It took him a minute to do it lying down and with just one hand, but he finally pulled it off handed it to Tucker, who stared at him.

“You have freckles,” Tucker stated dumbly.

Wash scowled up at him. “So?”

Tucker shrugged. “I didn’t expect it.” The aqua soldier motioned to the cobalt armor at his feet. “Hurry up and get that on. I’ve gotta go help Caboose, I’ll be back.” Wash flopped his head back into the snow again when the aqua soldier left.

Doc leaned forward. “I just finished patching you up. Want to sit up and help me get this armor on you?”

Wash nodded. He tried to roll over onto his right side to prop his arm underneath him, but it was no good; the prosthetic wouldn’t hold him. He tried to roll to his left, but his ribs burned there, Doc had just patched up his side but it hurt like _hell_.

“Here, let me help,” Doc offered. The medic reached out to his useless right arm to pull him up, but only succeeded in pulling the damaged prosthetic free from his shoulder. Wash’s eyes widened in alarm, but Doc remained blind to his predicament.

“Wait—” Wash started, but Doc shushed him.

The medic stood up and pulled on his arm harder, intending to tug him upwards, but the arm—the prosthetic was yanked out of Wash’s undersuit completely. Doc stumbled back a step, arm in hand, before gasping loudly.

“Oh my god, your arm!” Doc shrieked at him.

Wash looked up, amused. He thought about rolling around on the ground and acting like he was in pain, but decided against it. The medic _had_ saved his life twice today.

“It’s just a prosthetic,” he assured the medic, “It came off a long time ago.”

Doc looked back down at the prosthetic in his hand. “Oh,” he said quietly, “Oh, I thought—holy cow.” The medic held a hand to his chest. “I thought I’d pulled your actual arm off!”

Wash tried unsuccessfully to keep the amusement out of his face. “I noticed,” he smirked.

Doc sighed heavily in relief. “Man, that scared me! I’m so sorry!”

Wash shrugged. “It’s fine. Though, it’s a little tricky to put on through the undersuit,” he admitted, “will you help me?”

Doc walked back over. “Sure. It’s the least I could do for pulling it off.”

Wash reached his other hand up and Doc pulled him into a sitting position. He gritted his teeth in pain. The Meta and Tex had really done a number on him.

“How does it attach?” Doc knelt next to him and looked over the arm.

Wash looked over the prosthetic. “It’s—the strap that attaches it to my shoulder is broken. That’s how you were able to pull it off in the first place.” He pointed with his good arm to where the strap had been split.

Doc nodded. “Looks like the base, where your stump rests, was damaged, too.” Sure enough, the base was dented badly.

Wash grunted. “It needs to be replaced. Or fixed. I’ll have to live with it for now if you can find a substitute for the strap.”

“Will gauze and medical tape work?” Doc gestured to the first aid kit.

Wash shrugged, “Probably.” He watched as Doc fastened gauze into a makeshift strap, and then lined the inside of the base with a pad of gauze.

“That way the dent won’t chafe against you too badly,” Doc told him. Wash nodded and wordlessly accepted the medic’s help in putting the arm back on underneath the suit. They managed to get the prosthetic and most of that arm’s armor on before anyone came back to check on them. Sarge and Tucker showed up again, Sarge holding some sort of can in his hand.

“Dude, why the hell don’t you have the armor on yet?” Tucker asked.

Wash squinted up at him. “Just had to deal with something first,” he told the aqua soldier, “Sorry. I’m getting the armor on now.”

Sarge rattled the can—which contained spray paint, Wash realized—and gestured towards the pile of armor in the snow. “Mind if I make a little upgrade?” He asked.

Wash shrugged. “Go ahead.” He looked up at Doc again. “Lend me a hand?” He asked with a wink.

Doc sputtered at him in shock for a few seconds before reaching out a hand to help him up.


	2. Coffee and Kevlar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Tucker's turn to find out about Wash's arm (or lack thereof).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter!

Wash jolted awake with a gasp.

His room was dark, other than the neon green letters of his clock, which read 3:23 am. Wash peeled the sheets off of his sweat-soaked body with a grimace. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of his bed. The night, thankfully, was rather cool. Nights (well, days, really; the sun never set) at their current base were generally cool, usually cold enough for snow to fall. The shockingly cold cement under his feet helped shake the last vestiges of his nightmare away.

Wash scrubbed a hand over his face and contemplated what to do. He could try to go back to sleep, which never worked. It was too early to go outside and start running drills, although technically not because of the dark with the never-setting sun. He just didn’t want to wake Tucker or Caboose at this godawful hour of the morning.

Wash put his hand down with a sigh. He really didn’t have much to do. He looked over at his nightstand, where his datapad lay. He could get up, make a pot of coffee, and read...whatever he could find. He hummed. That actually didn’t sound so bad.

He looked long and hard at his prosthetic, which lay on his desk. He _really_ didn’t want to put the damn thing on. He was tired and just wanted coffee and a good book, not to wrestle with his clunky prosthetic. Besides that, his stump was a little sore; the dent from his fight with the Meta and Tex still hadn’t been dealt with. It was a little difficult to hammer out a dent with only one arm (especially with nosy teammates). He shrugged. No one would be around to see him without the arm anyways. He was just going to read for a few hours while nursing a cup or two of coffee, and then go back to his room to pretend he’d slept all night.

He tucked his datapad under his stump and headed to the common area. Making a pot of coffee with only one hand was a little difficult, but not impossible. Before long, he’d settled in a stool at the counter with his datapad leaned up against his makeshift stand (two mugs), and a cup of coffee in his hand. He sipped at the drink, content. He’d turned the light on in the kitchen only a little bit, and very little light filtered in from outside. The base was made to keep the never-ending sunlight out, so the soldiers inside could at least pretend to have normal sleep cycles.

Wash lost track of time as he sat there, reading. At one point, he got up to make himself another cup of coffee. Other than that, he drifted into the world of the story he was reading and paid no attention to the empty base around him.

“Um.”

As quiet as the sound was, it may as well have been a yell to Wash, who startled violently. He turned away from his book—he’d just gotten to a good part, too—to look up at Tucker, who stood in the doorway.

Wash scowled. “Don’t do that. You scared me.”

Tucker gave him an odd look. “Um,” the aqua soldier repeated, gaze drifting downwards slightly. Wash squinted at him. Tucker looked dazed.

“Are you alright?” Wash asked uncertainly.

Tucker looked up at him again. “Uh, I smelled coffee.”

Wash gestured to the empty pot. “There should be a little bit left.”

Tucker looked back down, towards Wash’s chest. Wash looked back to his book. Tucker probably just hadn’t fully woken up yet. “Dude,” the aqua soldier started, “What the fuck?”

 _That_ got Wash’s attention.

Wash whipped his head back around to look at Tucker, who was looking down at...

...Oh.

Wash followed Tucker’s gaze down to his stump.

Wash scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Oh. Right. I, uh. May have forgotten to put my prosthetic on?”

Tucker’s eyes snapped back up to look at him. “Prosthetic,” he said dumbly. Wash nodded. “You forgot it?”

Wash hesitated. “Well, no. I didn’t want to put it on. Arm’s sore,” he admitted, rubbing a little at his stump.

Tucker watched him, his eyes unreadable. “Oh.”

Wash turned back to his datapad. Tucker had taken the news well, he mused.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!” Tucker demanded.

Or not.

Tucker appeared in front of Wash, on the other side of the counter. “Like, on the list of shit-Tucker-needs-to-know, that should be way the fuck up there!”

Wash narrowed his eyes. “It was none of your business!” He snapped.

Tucker slammed his hands down on the counter. “Of course it’s my business! It’s kinda important for me to know if my teammate is _literally missing an arm!_ ”

Wash took a deep breath. “Tucker, calm down, please. Why is this so upsetting?”

Tucker turned around with a noise of frustration and turned around to rummage through the cabinets. Wash waited as he poured himself coffee. Eventually, Tucker pulled a stool to his side of the counter and sat facing Wash. “Please tell me you didn’t lose it when we fought the Meta.”

Wash reeled back a little, stunned. “No! No, I—I’d lost it much earlier. Years ago.”

Tucker deflated a little. His shoulders relaxed. “What happened?” Tucker’s brows scrunched together in concern.

Wash shrugged. He thought of brushing it off with something like, “It came off one day”, but thought better of it. Tucker sounded genuinely concerned. _Worried_ , even. “I was on a ship that crashed. A big one—a warship. It was in orbit and...I don’t really know what happened. Some of the Agents went rogue and attacked, and it crashed. The remains of it weren’t far from where we fought the Meta.”

Tucker shuddered. “That sounds...terrifying.”

Wash looked down at his coffee. “It was. I wasn’t very coherent at the time. I was in the medbay, and had just woken up for the first time in days. The ship was falling, and I’d gotten thrown from my bed. I was sprawled across the floor—or the wall, I’m not sure which—and then, when the ship hit the ground, one of the reinforced glass windows in the medbay broke. It sliced it clean off. I was so dazed I hardly felt a thing. I was just really confused when I tried to move it and it wasn’t there. It sure as hell hurt later, though.”

“Holy shit, that’s horrible.” He looked back up to see Tucker staring at him with wide eyes. “I—wow. I’m sorry.”

Wash shrugged again. “They made me a pretty nice prosthetic. It’s good enough that nobody realizes it isn’t an arm when I have it in the undersuit. It responds to me and each part can move individually as I want it to. It’s heavy, though, and it’s hard to wear for long periods of time.”

Tucker hummed. “Is that why you’re not wearing it now?”

“Yes. Well,” Wash paused, “Mostly. I, uh. It got dented.” He flushed a little when Tucker stared at him.

“Dented.” Tucker echoed.

Wash nodded. “Dented. The—the base, where my stump rests. One of Meta’s hits dented it. Doc padded it with gauze and tape—he actually fixed the strap the same way—but it’s a little uncomfortable.”

Tucker cocked his head to the side. “So...why didn’t you fix it? It’s been weeks, dude.”

Wash flushed further. “It’s, um. A little difficult to hammer out a dent with only one hand.”

Tucker blinked at him. Wash rubbed the back of his neck nervously. Both were silent for nearly a minute.

Tucker facepalmed so suddenly Wash jumped. “Did it not occur to you,” Tucker asked slowly, “to ask for help?”

Wash spluttered a little.

“Oh my god, you didn’t!” Tucker let out a startled laugh.

Wash huffed. “I—oh, shut up.” He gulped down the last of his coffee. “Fine, will you help me?”

Tucker smiled amusedly at him. “Sure. Why don’t you get the arm and I’ll meet you outside with a hammer.” Wash nodded.

When he handed Tucker the arm a few minutes later, he expected the other man to inspect the arm, to look it over and ask, _so how does it work again?_ That didn’t happen. Wash was not prepared for Tucker to take the arm, look at the dent, say “Ouch, that must have really bothered you,” and start hammering it out. He also didn’t expect him to ask, “You think maybe we could line it with some of the undersuit patches we’ve got?”

“I—what?” Wash blinked at him.

Tucker prodded the base with his fingers. “The padding here is pretty worn. We could probably replace it with a couple of those patches.”

Which led to Tucker dragging him to the supply room and gluing kevlar patches to his prosthetic.

While they waited for that to dry, Tucker also replaced the makeshift strap that Wash hadn’t known how to fix. He’d found some longer strips of the fabric and glued them into a semi-stretchy strap that, admittedly, looked much more comfortable than the original strap. They sat on the floor in the supply room, waiting for the glue to dry.

“Maybe I could make you a sleeve for it?” Tucker wondered aloud. “That way you could always have it wrapped in kevlar, and wouldn’t have to wrestle it into the undersuit.”

Wash nodded. “If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, that might...that might be really helpful.”

Tucker grinned at him. “Sure I could! If you let me borrow it again to get the measurements right.” Wash nodded. Tucker prodded the pieces he’d glued. “There!” He announced, “I think it’s good! Wanna try it?”  
Wash took the arm from him and prodded the new fabric. It didn’t feel as worn and hard as the old padding. He fitted it onto his stump and put the strap over his shoulder. He moved it around a tiny bit at first, then in larger movements.

“It’s good,” he told Tucker, “it’s comfortable. Thanks.”

Tucker leaned back and put his weight on his hands. “You’re welcome. Next time you need help, it’s okay to ask for it.”

Wash flushed and looked down. “Got it.”

Tucker groaned. “Oh, shit. How the hell are we going to explain this to Caboose?”

“Hm?” Wash blinked and looked back up at him. “What do you mean?”

Tucker sighed. “He’ll probably freak out and think he’s going to lose _his_ arm, too.”

Wash snickered. “Oh, that. No he—he already knows.”

Tucker’s head snapped up to look at him. “What.”

Wash smiled a little. “He’s known since before we met up with Church the first time. Back when I first met him.”

“What?!’ Tucker yelled. “You told him but you didn’t tell me?”

Wash laughed. “It—I had to clean it! He was pretty concerned, but I explained it to him. It didn’t seem to bother him that much, actually.”

Tucker sighed in relief. “Oh, thank god. That’s one less thing I have to worry about. The _last_ thing we need is for Caboose to be afraid that his goddamn arm is about to fall off.”

 Wash snorted. “That’s for sure.”

Tucker stood up and offered him a hand. Wash took it with a wink. “Thanks for the hand.”

 “Oh my god,” Tucker groaned, “You did _not_ just say that.”

Wash grinned roguishly at him. “You did a great job patching it up. I’ve really got to... _hand_ it to you.”

“No. Just..no.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: Sarge
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr! narassiwrites.tumblr.com


	3. Spaceships and Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash's arm is acting up. Sarge declares that if Wash were a robot, he could fix the arm. 
> 
> Which...might not actually be that bad of an idea, Wash realizes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hehehe, Sarge's turn!! 
> 
> I'm so sorry this chapter took so long to make, and yet it's so short. I have another, slightly longer chapter almost ready to go and will have it out sometime this week to make up for it. 
> 
> Enjoy =D

Spaceships hate him, Wash decided. They just hate him. He’d just been looking around, really—he hadn’t meant to trip on a wire and bring down the whole goddamn ship.

At least this time he didn’t lose an arm.

Not that his prosthetic was in great shape. Something was wrong with it; it didn’t respond to him as quickly as it once did, and sometimes it spazzed out and moved without him wanting it to. He might have asked Epsilon about it eventually, if Carolina hadn’t left with him. And there wasn’t anything Tucker could really _fix_ this time. Something in the wiring needed to be replaced and even Wash had no idea what to do.

On top of his malfunctioning arm, Caboose was inconsolable about Church’s most recent disappearance. Tucker obviously missed him, too, though he showed it differently. He also needed to fix the comm tower so they might have a hope of getting off this damn rock.

He was about ready to skin Carolina alive for leaving him again.

Training wasn’t going well, either. Wash grit his teeth as Tucker stomped back inside the makeshift base. He’d been _trying_ to get Tucker to do some drills, just enough to get him in shape. If anything happened, they needed to be prepared to fight. Wash sighed. Maybe next time he’d try to do the drills alongside Tucker. That way the aqua soldier didn’t think Wash was ordering him around for the sake of ordering him around.

He dropped down to do pushups. He’d try it. He’d probably have to slow down. Or...maybe showing off a little would get Tucker up and moving. It could, of course, backfire spectacularly and make Tucker hate his drills _more_ , but it might show him that the drills were possible. If he just—

“Nnngh!” Wash’s prosthetic gave out and he fell flat on his face. The arm twitched, reminiscent of the way a lizard’s tail twitched when it was cut off. Wash groaned. Not _now_.

“You alright there, Agent Washington?” Sarge’s voice came from behind him.

Wash winced and tried to stop the arm from twitching. He pushed himself up onto his knees and glanced behind him. “Yeah, fine.” Of course. Of all the times for his arm to give out, it’s when _Sarge_ walks over.

“Uh huh. I’ll just add ‘faceplanting into the dirt’ into the dictionary under the word ‘fine’, then.”

Wash scowled. “Shut up, Sarge.” His arm chose that moment to spasm.

Sarge glanced down at the arm. “Didja injure that arm in the crash? And you gave _me_ hell for not reporting my broken ribs to you immediately!” The older man huffed. “Dirty blue.”

Wash shook his head. “No, I—the—I’m not hurt.”

Sarge stared at him. “Son, if you think I’m gonna believe that for one second...”

Wash stood up and shook his head again. “No, really. It’s—”

Sarge continued over him, “If only Doc were here. He’d patch ya right up. Or if you were a robot, like Lopez, _then_ I could fix you!”

Wash paused. That...actually might not be a bad idea. Assuming Sarge didn’t attempt to add guns to the prosthetic or make it run off of diesel fuel. His arm twitched again. “Actually...maybe you _can_ help me?”

Sarge stopped and stared at him. “Unless you turned into a robot overnight, no can do, Agent Wash.”

Wash fumbled with his arm as it spasmed. “Do you have tools?”

Sarge nodded. “Of course I do. What kind of Red would I be if I didn’t have tools?” The older man paused. “Wait... _are_ you a robot?”

“No,” Wash huffed, “Just...where are your tools?”

Sarge eyed him for a moment before turning around and marching towards red base. “C’mon over, Wash. I suppose I can handle having a dirty blue at my base just this once.”

When they got to the makeshift base, Sarge sat him down outside, against the wall behind some crates. For privacy, Wash realized. Sarge brought out a well-used red toolbox and laid out the tools, and then looked at him expectantly. Wash removed the armor on his upper body and stripped his undersuit down to his waist, thankful he’d worn a shirt underneath. He pulled off the kevlar sleeve Tucker had made him.

“My prosthetic was damaged in the crash,” he explained, “and now it spasms and twitches uncontrollably. Or doesn’t move when I want it to. Think you can fix it?”

Sarge reached his hand out and Wash removed the arm. “Let me see what I can do.”

Wash watched anxiously as Sarge ran his hands over the exterior, and poked and prodded a few times. He chewed his lip when Sarge began to remove the metal exterior. Sarge grunted.

“Why don’t you go inside the base? Give me space to work.” Sarge suggested.

“But—they don’t—my arm, Grif and Simmons don’t...” Wash spluttered uselessly.

Sarge shrugged. “Up to you.”

Wash scooted back away from Sarge, just enough to give him space to work. He lay down in the grass, closed his eyes, and settled in, listening to Sarge work. The other man hummed and whistled tunes Wash didn’t recognize. Wash took off his helmet and flopped his head down into the grass. This...this really wasn’t all that bad, he thought. The jungle was hot and humid, but it wasn’t terrible in the shade of the cliff wall. Sarge’s tinkering made enough white noise to lull Wash into dozing peacefully. He wasn’t really _asleep_ , not with the constant noise in his ear, but he felt peaceful enough.

When Wash next opened his eyes, the sun had just set below the canyon walls. Not close to night, but well into the afternoon. Wash frowned. It had been late morning when he had collapsed doing pushups. Maybe he _had_ fallen asleep?

“You awake there, Frecklelancer?” Sarge said.

Wash propped himself up on his good arm. “I...I guess I am now. Sorry. I, uh. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.”

Sarge waved a hand dismissively. “Lookin' at the dark circles under your eyes, you needed it. Here. I think I fixed it.” He held out the arm.

Wash took it and ran his hand over it. Nothing looked different on the outside. He put it on carefully, once again thanking Tucker for the soft pad on the inside. Once it was on, he moved his wrist slowly in circles. He made a grabbing motion with his hand and then moved each finger individually. He tested the elbow next. Nothing unusual. It stuttered a little when he moved his wrist and elbow at the same time, but not badly.

“Seems good. It’s working better than it has since the crash, maybe even since before the Meta bashed it.” He looked up at the Red. “Thanks, Sarge.”

Sarge waved his hand again. “Don’t mention it.” The Red closed his toolbox. Wash frowned slightly. Sarge must have put his tools away before waking him up.

“What was wrong with it?” Wash asked. He started to get his suit on again, pulling the sleeve and then undersuit on before reattaching the armor he’d taken off.

Sarge stood and offered him a hand up when he was dressed. “A metal piece on the inside got bent and was pinching a couple wires. It was banged up all over, too. That arm has seen better days.”

“Yeah,” Wash put on his helmet, “It’s gotten pretty beaten up. Is it in bad shape?”

Sarge nodded. “It’s not looking good. I can repair it and keep it running for a while, but it’s not going to hold out forever.”

Wash grimaced. “Alright. I...I’ll do my best to be careful with it. And if we ever get out of this canyon I’ll see if I can’t get it repaired.”

Sarge shook his head. “With the condition that thing is in, you’d be safer getting it replaced entirely,” He said.

Wash grunted. “Ouch. Okay. Can it still take my weight? Is there anything I should avoid doing with it?”

“I wouldn’t put your weight on it if you’re wearing armor,” he said, “but it should take your weight normally just fine. Just be careful, don’t bash it, and let me know if it acts up again.”

Wash nodded. “Okay. Uh...Thanks. For fixing it.”

Sarge grunted. “I wouldn’t want to keep you Blues at too much of a disadvantage. It’s more fun when you can fight back! As much fun as it is to have tactical superiority and all. Which reminds me. I got a new plan to possibly renovate Red Base! I shouldn't leave Grif and Simmons waiting.”

Wash rolled his eyes. “Right. I’ll, uh. I’ll leave you to your scheming, then.”

“Right!” Sarge barked. “See you bright and early tomorrow, Agent Wash!”

Wash started off towards Blue Base. “Goodbye, Sarge.”

“Good riddance, you dirty Blue!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: Grif and Simmons. 
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr! agentfrecklelancer.tumblr.com


	4. Friends and Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wash's old arm finally gave out, but he's having some...issues...with the new one. He seeks out Sarge again, but Grif and Simmons are with him. 
> 
> Wash grits his teeth and gets it over with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grif and Simmons' turn!!
> 
> Someone told me they loved the arm puns in the first chapters and I realized I forgot to include a terrible arm pun last chapter. This chapter is somewhat heavier than the first two, so I only included one. I hope you'll forgive me. The puns and general arm-related shenanigans will return in the next few chapters, especially in Carolina's chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!! =D

After the fight with Locus and Felix at the jamming tower, Wash was confined to the infirmary for three days. Technically it was supposed to be five, but Dr. Grey let him out early after holding his armor hostage and banning him from the training grounds. She let him take the sleeve for his prosthetic, but he looked a little silly wandering around with a sleeve of kevlar and a T-shirt, so he decided to hide in the room the Reds and Blues have staked out as their own.

Well, that’s not entirely true. He visited Tucker a lot. He hated the infirmary, but he hated worrying over Tucker more.

One of the times that Tucker woke up, Wash was there in a rickety plastic chair next to his bed reading on his datapad.

He grinned at Tucker. “Hello there, sleeping beauty.”

Tucker scowled at him and stretched carefully. “Fuck you, dude.”

Wash laughed. “It’s good to see you awake. How’re you feeling?”

Tucker scrunched up his face at him. “Pretty much the same as yesterday when you asked me the same question. Like garbage warmed over and maybe still a little high on painkillers.”

Wash rolled his eyes. “So, good, then?”

Tucker huffed. “Yeah. I’m doing fine.” Wash settled back into his chair and turned on his datapad. Before he could get far, Tucker elbowed him to get his attention. “Hey, so, uh. What’s with the sleeve?”

Wash turned his datapad off again and looked down at his sleeve. “Oh, that. I, uh.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Dr. Grey won’t let me wear armor for another week. She let me have the sleeve to cover my prosthetic though.”

Tucker hummed. “Why not just show it off?”

Wash shrugged and looked away. “I. My old one broke.”

Tucker was silent for a moment. “Locus shot it?”

Wash sighed. “Locus shot me and I landed on it.”

Tucker went quiet again. “But you have a new one?”

Wash nodded. “Yeah, Dr. Grey made me a new one. Apparently because she amputates limbs so often, she learned how to make prosthetics? Don’t ask.”

Tucker laughed. “Why am I not surprised? So...what’s wrong with the new one?”

Wash pulled off the sleeve. “It’s just. I’m really grateful and all. I just. It’s...” He trailed off and shrugged.

Tucker reached out and took hold of the prosthetic. “It’s got all the wiring exposed. It looks like a metal and wire arm, instead of your old...arm looking arm.” He said.

Wash nodded. “Yeah.”

Tucker eyed it for a minute. “Do you think we could cover it up? Like, hear me out. I’m thinking that maybe this is similar to what yours looked like underneath all the plating? And maybe this one was made this way because they don’t have much material to make the plating out of. Any plating material would be used to repair armor and stuff, right?”

Wash’s brows furrowed. “I guess that could be true.”

Tucker shrugged. “So maybe we could just keep an eye out for scraps and try to make plating? Dude, I bet Sarge would be all over that shit.”

Wash frowned. “I don’t want to take resources away, if these armies need scraps for repairs.”

“Nah, dude,” Tucker grinned, “Don’t worry about it too much. I’m just saying that Dr. Grey was probably just trying to be as efficient as possible, if she makes that many prosthetics.”

Wash put the sleeve back on. “Alright,” he said, “I’ll...I’ll go ask Sarge about it.” He paused and smiled slowly at Tucker. “I’ll see if he can...lend me a hand.”

Tucker slapped his hands to his face. “Oh my god, you did not just say that. I _knew_ that smile meant something horrible.”

Wash threw his head back and laughed. He stood and made to leave. “I’ll let you know what happens,” he said over his shoulder.

“Cool,” Tucker said, “Can I read on your datapad while you’re gone?”

Wash rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

 

* * *

 

Fifteen minutes later, Wash was back at the room he shared with the Reds and Blues. Sarge thankfully was inside, resting on a mattress on the floor.

Unfortunately, Grif and Simmons were there with him, bickering over a card game a few feet away.

Wash gritted his teeth. Whatever. It wasn’t a big deal, right?

He walked over to Sarge and plopped down on the mattress next to him. “Hey, uh, Sarge. Could I borrow you for a sec?”

Sarge sat upright on the mattress. “What do you need, Blue?”

Wash eyed Grif and Simmons, who had quieted down a bit. He lifted his arm silently.

Sarge followed his line of sight to the other two Reds, and back to his arm. “I’d give up on keepin’ them out of it, Agent Wash. They’ll figure it out eventually anyways.”

Grif and Simmons instantly dropped their cards and turned their attention to him, watching him expectantly.

Wash sighed heavily. “Fine. Just. Can you not tell anyone? Please?”

Simmons made a criss-cross motion over his heart. Grif just shrugged.

Wash sighed again, but decided that was the best he’d get. He turned back to Sarge. “Did you know I got a replacement?”

Sarge shook his head. “It finally gave out?”

Wash smiled wryly. “Turns out landing on it after I got shot was a little too much for it.”

Sarge chuckled. “But you have a new one? Is it giving you problems?”

Wash looked down. “I...well, no. Not, not exactly.”

Grif appeared next to them, Simmons in tow. “Okay, what are we talking about?” Grif asked. Both Reds settled on the end of Sarge’s mattress.

Wash gave him a long suffering look before slowly moving to take the sleeve off.

“I will tell you right now that I am extremely grateful to Dr. Grey for making me a new one,” he told Sarge, “and I really shouldn’t be complaining. I just. It doesn’t look anything like my old one. I guess I’m self-conscious about it.” He finished taking the sleeve off, and ignored the way Grif and Simmons’ eyes bulged when they saw it.

Sarge gave him a considering look. “May I see it?”

Wash removed the arm and handed it to him, rubbing his stump and awkwardly avoiding eye contact with the other two Reds.

Simmons was the first to speak up, after a minute or so of Sarge examining the arm. “So...when did that happen?” He asked.

Wash shrugged. “It was a long time ago. Before I met you guys. A ship I was on crashed. The medbay I was in had these big reinforced glass windows in it, and when we crashed one of them came loose and sliced right through. I was lucky my arm had been flung out away from me when I hit the floor—or the wall, I’m not sure—and that it didn’t chop off anything more important.”

All three Reds winced in sympathy. Wash looked down and rubbed at his stump again.

“What did your old one look like?” Simmons asked.

“It, uh. It had plating over it. So the wires and stuff weren’t exposed or anything. I don’t know, I guess it just looked more like an arm to me than that one does.” Wash shrugged. “I feel awful complaining.”

Grif snorted. “Dude, that arm looks like a piece of junk. I don’t blame you.”

Simmons regarded him for a moment before taking off the top half of his undersuit. Wash stared at the unusual gesture for moment before turning to Grif to give him privacy.

Wash shook his head. “It works just fine. It’s in better shape than my old one was, and it responds better than it ever did.”

Grif shrugged. “Just because it works doesn’t mean it doesn’t look like shit.”

Simmons freed his arm and held it out to Wash. “I felt the same way about mine.”

Wash started. Simmons’ left arm was a prosthetic. “I—oh. I didn’t realize.” He’d realized that part of Simmons’ face was robotic and remembered offhand comments about Simmons being a cyborg and having robot parts, but he hadn’t paid much attention at the time. If he were completely honest, he’d probably filed the comments under “Typical Red Team Nonsense” and ignored them. He stared at the grey metal arm that, admittedly, looked pretty similar to his old one.

Simmons smiled at him. “My first prosthetics were pretty ugly. Sarge made them quickly so Grif and I didn’t, you know, die. But after I healed he made the parts look better and fit better. Every so often he comes up with a new upgrade, too.” Simmons shrugged. “It should be easy for him to work out plating for yours.” He began to wrestle the undersuit back on.

Wash looked at Sarge hopefully. Sarge handed his arm back with a grin. “Let me take some measurements and then give me a couple of weeks! I’ll have plating done for you in no time.”

Wash slumped in relief. “I—thank you. Thank you so much, Sarge, again.”

Sarge stood up and rummaged through a crate by the wall. “Ah, don’t worry about it Blue. Just keep wearin’ the sleeve for now.” He came back with a measuring tape, a piece of blueprint paper, and a pen.

Wash held out the arm for him to measure. “I’ve been getting some funny looks at the sleeve lately. I’ll, uh. I’ll just hide in here until then.”

He earned a chuckle from all three of them. Grif rolled his eyes. “Just tell people you injured it, or that it got hurt a long time ago and you don’t like showing it off.”

Simmons finished with his undersuit, leaned over, and grabbed something from the floor. “Or just wear a jacket. Here. I have an extra.” He handed it to Wash.

“Are you sure?” Wash asked, “I don’t want to take it if you need it.”

Simmons nodded. “I have a couple of them. I don’t always like people to see my prosthetics either.”

Wash took the jacket gratefully, noting that it was black and not the Red’s standard maroon. “Thanks.” Simmons nodded again.

Sarge handed the arm back to him again. “There you go! I’ll get to work on it tomorrow. It’s gettin’ late today.”

Wash nodded and put the arm back on, then the sleeve, and then the jacket. He checked the clock above the doorway to see it was early evening. “To the mess hall?”

Grif nodded enthusiastically and stood, heading for the door. “Fuck yeah we’re going to the mess hall. Emotions make me hungry.”

Simmons sighed and trailed after him. “ _Everything_ makes you hungry, Grif.”

“I’m a human being, Simmons. Hunger is a natural thing to experience.”

“But you eat _all the time_.”

“Got a problem with that?”

“Yes!”

Wash laughed at the bickering trailing down the hallway and turned back to Sarge, who was scribbling at the blueprints. “Are you coming?” He asked.

Sarge rolled up the blueprints and tucked them away between his mattress and the wall. “Yep! Quick, before Grif takes all the Mac’n’Cheese!” The older man stood and they began walking towards the mess hall.

Wash laughed again. “We’d better run if we want there to be any left!”

Sarge sniffed. “I don’t think Dr. Grey would appreciate you runnin’, but I’ll accept power-walkin’.”

Wash rolled his eyes. “Fine. Let’s take the other way around so they don’t see us.”

Sarge nodded. “Good idea, for a Blue!”

Wash snorted. “Yeah, I have those sometimes,” he deadpanned.

Sarge huffed out a laugh.

They reached the mess hall and were in line before Simmons and Grif walked in the door, still bickering. Simmons stopped in his tracks at the sight of them and Donut in line together. Wash saw Grif pointing from the door they’d come in from, to Wash and Sarge, and back again out of the corner of his eye. Sarge winked at him. 

The Mac’n’Cheese was entirely worth it.

 

And a few days later, Grif and Simmons guarded the door while Sarge attached grey and yellow spray-painted plating to his arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next: I actually have no fucking clue. So, uh. Yeah. There's that. =/
> 
> I'm planning on Carolina finding out, for sure. I think I might do a chapter for Donut, since I love writing Donut. I'd love to do a chapter for Kimball and Doyle finding out. The order of all of these things? Nonexistent at this time. Hopefully I'll get this sorted out after finals and before Christmas. 
> 
> Come visit me on tumblr! agentfrecklelancer.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> Come visit me on tumblr! agentfrecklelancer.tumblr.com


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